Stryker's Woman

by Chuck Tyrell

  At first, Cat stretched, striving to regain the limberness she’d had at Fort Laramie. Stretched and bent, but took no steps. Her pack stood guard. And when she finished, she patted each, scratched ears, ruffled fur. Then went to her special sleeping place. Once she’d laid down, her pack pushed in around her, warming her through the night. But she knew the season was turning and that snow would soon fall.

  Cat began to walk, and then to run. Without any instructions from her, Maman always accompanied her while the harem, as Cat thought of them, lay in her customary place, so a glance from the entrance of a teepee would see the normal pile of dogs and would not notice that two of the pack were gone.

  Cat began to practice her Savate moves, going naked through the night like a wiry shadowy wraith, with a canine companion. More and more exercise, but no more to eat.

  During the day, Cat was a naked animal on hands and knees, protected by her pack. At night she was a wraith, a shadow flitting through the frost-bitten trees, regaining her strength, her balance, and her soul. A wraith she was, but never without a protective shadow, or two, or three.

  The bitches fed Cat. They brought her cottontails and packrats and doves and sometimes bullfrogs. Cat threw the carcasses carefully on the nearly spent coals of the main fire and covered them with ashes. And when the false dawn gave her some light, she pulled the cooked carcasses out, stripped them of skin, which the dogs ate, tore the meat—not always cooked through—from the bones, sharing with the pack. With the extra food she got from the pack, Cat survived ... no, she grew hard and firm, strong and supple, lasting into the deep fall when Swayback John Williams came to the Absaroka camp.

  ~*~

  Stryker became feverish soon after the Shoshone woman, who said she was known as one-who-walks-far—“Walks” in white man talk—dressed the wound, plastering the entry hole with a poultice of smashed cactus pulp.

  The boy watched, never looking directly at Stryker, but keeping him in his peripheral vision.

  Stryker shook his head, trying to stop it from whirling. He blinked rapidly as he looked up at Walks. She was out of focus. He felt hot, but his skin was dry. He opened his mouth to say something to her, but his stomach heaved, and what little he had eaten in the morning splattered on the ground. He heaved and heaved and continued to heave long after he’d empted his stomach.

  He found himself on all fours, his head spinning. He tried to take a deep breath, but his muscles wouldn’t obey. He tried to pant, but couldn’t. The boy walked over to Stryker, kicked him, and shook his boy’s arrow in his face. Stryker could hardly see him, and had no idea what the boy said. He looked around for Will Benson, but his eyes would not focus. Oh God. Don’t kill me now, before I find Cat. He gritted his teeth to keep his gorge down. She’s all alone, God. All alone.

  Walks glared at her son and held her hand out for the arrow.

  The boy put it behind his back, shook his head, and yelled at his mother.

  “He won’t let his mom see the arrow he shot you with,” Will Benson said.

  Stryker struggled to make sense of the misty words that reached his brain.

  The woman shook her open hand at the boy. She said something sharp and hard.

  Will interpreted. “Gimme, she says.”

  The boy stared defiantly at Walks for a long moment. Then, his every move showing how reluctant he was, he handed the bloody arrow to her.

  Stryker’s blood showed on the arrow to about a hand span up from its fire-hardened point. Still, it was plain to see that the arrow had been soaked in something. She pointed at the stain and shouted at the boy.

  “What’s on the end of the arrow, she wants to know.”

  “The boy says, mashed red ants, mashed spiders, and bile from the green sack on deer liver.”

  Stryker faded out.

  “You coming around?”

  Stryker struggled to open his eyes and found that he was able to endure the pale strip of light forcing its way between his eyelids. “Ungh,” he said.

  “I’ll tell you, Matthew Stryker, hadn’t a been for that Shoshone woman called Walks, you’d be playing a harp with the angels, or beating a bass drum while you danced with bare feet on the hot coals of Hell.”

  “Wha ... .” Stryker tried to make his mouth move and form words, but it refused.

  “Never seen the likes, and I’ve been around more’n a year or three.”

  Stryker finally got his eyes pried open, but Will Benson was just a blur of buckskin brown topped by a blob of black.

  “There was a while there when you was laid out flat as a board. Not moving or nothing. I figured your time had come. But that Shoshone woman, that gal Walks, she put her ear down over your heart and she said it was still beating. But your chest was flat as a slab of limestone and didn’t move no more than a piece of slate. ‘He’s dead,’ I said. But she just shook her head.”

  Will pulled a plug from somewhere in his buckskins and took a big bite. He rolled the tobacco around in his mouth until it was good and moist. He worked at the chew for a long minute, then fired a stream of tobacco juice toward the edge of the fire.

  “So, you know what she done? She clamped her mouth over your’n, that’s what. Then she went to blowing. Ever time she blowed, your chest rose. Not by much, but it rose. And when she took her mouth off’n your’n, your ribs’d go flat again. She’d blow, then watch you kinda breathe out. She’d wait a little minute, and if you didn’t suck in any air of your own accord, she’d put her mouth on you and blow your lungs full of air again. That’s what she done. But when you took a breath on your own, well, she quit blowing into you.”

  Stryker wiggled two of his fingers. He tried raising a hand, but his muscles wouldn’t do what his thoughts commanded.

  “She’s gone over to the crick, looking for something. She don’t want you to move.”

  “Will?” Stryker’s word was more a squeak than a voice. “Will?”

  “I’m here, man.”

  “Thankee.”

  Will barked a laugh. “You depend on me, Matt Stryker, you’ll end up dead. I’m not about to blow air into your mouth. Breathe or don’t breathe. In my book, that’s really up to the one doing the breathing.”

  Stryker tried to take a deep breath, but his body was still running on automatic and didn’t want to take orders from his brain at all. He made do with breathing steadily. He heard a woman talking. Sounded like she was bawling out some kid.

  “Walks is giving her kid hell for shooting you with a poison arrow. Seems only men can use poison. Reckon he’ll get hell when his pa comes back.”

  “From where?” Surprisingly, Stryker got two words out before his neck muscles rebelled.

  “They didn’t say. But it shouldn’t be long. They ain’t even set up camp.”

  “We go.”

  “We don’t go nowhere. Not with you all froze up and not moving.”

  “Gotta go.”

  The woman called Walks said, “You stay.” She straddled Stryker and bared the arrow wound. The sight brought a sharp intake of breath from her.

  “You’re all red and swole up around where that bitty boy arrow went into you,” Will said.

  Walks reached into the willow basket she’d brought with her and pulled out what looked like a fat earthworm about three inches long. She placed it on Stryker’s chest next to the entrance wound.

  “Leech,” Will said. “Injuns figure leeches’ll suck out poison.”

  “Do they?”

  “Hell, I dunno. Ain’t never been poisoned.”

  Walks let a second leech fasten itself to Stryker. Then another. And another. Four bloodsuckers in all. “Now,” she said. “Now we wait.”

  “Obliged,” Stryker said.

  Walks nodded, stood, and walked away, back stiff and head held high.

  Will and Stryker watched. Walks’ son threw his arrow at the men and took off into a grove of Gambel’s oak, dodging adroitly as he ran.

  “Boy’s upset,” Will said. “Reckon he wants you
dead. Makes a man wonder why.”

  “Hmmm.” Stryker’s body and mind still felt groggy. He relaxed and lay still, eyes closed.

  “Matt? You hanging in there? You OK?”

  “Hmmm. Sleep.” And he did.

  Chapter Eleven

  People tended to underestimate Swayback John Williams. His S-shaped spine shortened him to about five-four, but his shoulders were an axe handle and a half across and while his hands came down to his knees, his arms and shoulders would have done Paul Bunyon proud. His legs were long and muscular, fit for a man half again his height. But others tended to see only a short disfigured man in beaded buckskins instead of the strong mountain man Swayback John was.

  Nearly forty years Swayback John had roamed the plains and mountains of the west. Before the war, he’d trapped beaver. During the war, he’d lived with Hunkpapa Sioux and hunted buffalo. After the war, he went up north to Canada for a couple of years, then drifted back into Montana where he scouted for the Army and lived with the Crow. He married Moon Child, sister of Black Eagle, and had two sons.

  Cat saw Swayback John ride in. She ducked lower into her bevy of dogs.

  The strange-looking man on the dapple gray horse never even glanced her way. Still, Cat got the feeling she’d been seen. The man was white. Should that not be a good thing?

  The old bitch Maman growled deep in her throat.

  Cat’s jumble of dogs lay nearly outside the circle of teepees that comprised Black Eagle’s camp. The warrior and his cohorts put on army-blue coats some days after bringing Cat to the camp. That was many days ago, and Cat could only guess where they had gone. Still, all those men had worn blue army shirts. Black Eagle’s uniform shirt even had sergeant’s stripes. What had Stryker said as they sparred at Savate? Watch the Crow. He’ll often be a scout for the Army, but there is no warrior more vicious than a Crow. I see one coming, I’ll shoot first, ask questions later.

  Snuggled in among the camp dogs, Cat dozed. The strange man went into Black Eagle’s teepee and did not come out. Besides, the dogs guarded her.

  Maman growled and Cat’s eyes snapped open. She could see Black Eagle’s teepee through the cluster of dogs in front of her, and the strange man stood there with the woman Cat thought of as Black Eagle’s wife. He was no taller than she, but his legs were two-thirds the length of his whole body, and his broad shoulders seemed to perch atop his torso.

  While talking with the woman, the strange man glanced toward the clutch of dogs. His eyes nailed Cat’s. She knew he saw her. Maybe recognized her. Without conscious thought, she held her breath. Would he take her away? Should she do something to show she saw him? Show him she was a white woman who’d been made into an animal? He looked away before Cat could make up her mind about what to do.

  He said something to the woman. She laughed, putting her hand over her mouth to cover her crooked teeth. She shook her head emphatically. The man nodded, climbed on his dappled gray, and rode off, not looking back. Cat felt like crying for the first time since the dogs became her protectors. Maman sensed her sadness and licked her face. “I’m here. I’m always here,” she seemed to say.

  Cat threw her arms around the old bitch’s neck. “Maman. Je t’aime.” Maman licked Cat’s arm.

  The day passed with no further intrusion from the strange man. As the night deepened, one of the pack’s male dogs brought Cat a very plump squirrel. Black walnut trees lined the creek, and the squirrel had obviously eaten his fill, storing up fat for winter. As usual, Cat dug out a small pit in the remaining coals of the cooking fire, put the squirrel in, and heaped coals over it. She then covered the mound with a thick layer of ashes.

  When the last of the teepee fires flickered out in Black Eagle’s camp, Cat crawled to the outer edge of the circle of teepees. The dogs followed. When she reached a stand of Hemlock, she stood. The dogs separated and plunged into the forest, searching for food. Cat stood, and began to stretch.

  That night, she did everything she usually did. Stretch. Jump. Practice Savate techniques. Run.

  As she shadow boxed her Savate moves, she couldn’t help wondering where Matt Stryker was. Had he just erased her from his mind? True, their only attachment was hours spent practicing Savate. But there is much a person can learn about another while sparring. She’d learned that he would not suffer fools gladly. She learned he was a survivor. But why would he come looking for her. She was no longer human. She was an animal, part of the pack of camp dogs in an Absaroka Indian camp. She shook her head. Matt Stryker would not come looking for her. She would have to do whatever could be done by herself ... naked and moving around on all fours.

  Cat ran. Her bare feet and her calloused knees were tough as rawhide. She reveled at the brush of cold autumn air against her now-brown skin. At the far end of her running route, she squatted and pissed, using a broad heart-leaf to wipe herself. The males of the pack came around and lifted their legs over the wetness of her piss, marking it as something that belonged to their pack.

  She ran back toward Black Eagle’s camp. As she neared, Maman positioned herself across the trail Cat intended to follow. Maman growled. She faced a large sycamore. Cat stopped.

  “Well, well. Out running at night, are we?” The strange man stepped out from behind the sycamore, a long-barreled Colt Army in his hand.

  Maman showed her fangs.

  “I’ll kill your dog if she tries to bite me.”

  “Maman. Quiet.”

  Maman backed until she came up against Cat’s legs. She didn’t growl, but she wasn’t happy about the strange man, either.

  “Who are you?”

  “I could ask the same question. John Williams is my name, but folks call me Swayback John.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I live here. Mostly. I did, that is, until white man’s measles took my woman. Nowadays I drop by once in a while to see my sons.”

  “Why do you stop me?”

  “Well, bless me, I can’t see a naked gal acting like she’s a dog without trying to find out what’s happening. So. What’s happening?”

  “I am an animal. The Absaroka call me Bishke.”

  “Dog.”

  “Perhaps. Dogs treat me as one of them. Absaroka treat me like a dog. So I will live like a dog when any Absaroka is nearby.”

  Swayback John looked her up and down. “You’re comely enough, lass, but I reckon you oughta wear something more than the suit you was born in.”

  “I live.”

  “I reckon.”

  “Why stop me?”

  “Chilam says you are worthless, so I bought you. You’ll go with me come morning.” He tossed Cat a bundle, which she managed to catch. “You’ll want to put them duds on afore we leave, I reckon.”

  “What did you pay for me? Where do we go?”

  “What I paid don’t make no difference. We’re going wherever my hoss takes us.”

  “What did you pay?”

  “Not important.”

  “How much is one woman worth to the Absaroka?”

  “You’re not a woman. You’re a dog. Don’t forget that.”

  Cat fell silent.

  “You bled?”

  “Absaroka men and boys don’t hump me now. Maman and her sons keep them away.”

  “You bled, then?”

  “I have no way of counting days, but since they stopped, yes.”

  “Good. No Crow brat in your belly. That’s good.”

  “The woman fed me herbs. Mugwort, perhaps. But I would cut any Indian brat from my belly with my own knife.” The words dripped like venom from Cat’s lips.

  Swayback John’s pale eyes skewered her for a long minute. “Well, well. We’ll have to see about that.”

  Cat dropped the bundle on the ground.

  Swayback cocked the Colt Army in his hand. His teeth flashed. “`Pick it up, girl. That’s to cover your nekkid skin so’s we can go into white man country.”

  Cat put her hands on her hips and took a stance that spread her feet sho
ulder-width apart. “Can you force me, Swayback John?”

  “I can sure shoot your classy ass if you don’t do what I say. I bought you, bitch dog. So put them duds on. We ride at daybreak. You hear me?”

  Cat said nothing, made no move.

  Swayback stepped closer, but not close enough for her to reach him with a Savate kick. “I’m gonna tell you one more time. Pick up the duds. Put ’em on. Do whatever you have to do to be ready to go by daylight. You hear me? Or do I gotta pull this here trigger.

  Cat decided now was not the time to die. That time would come soon enough. She had no inkling of what Swayback had in mind for her, but at least she’d no longer have to behave like a dog to merely survive. She picked up the bundle and started back toward her nest. Maman put her body between Cat and Swayback. “I hear you, Swayback man,” Cat said. “When you go, I go. That is enough.”

  Swayback’s teeth sparkled. “That’s a good girl. I’ll take ya at your word. Dogs keep their word, ya know. Ain’t never met a dog what lied.” He watched her, taking in the way the dogs acted as her protection, standing stiff legged with raised hackles, directly between Swayback and Cat. His teeth sparkled again. “We’ll see, little dog girl. We’ll see.”

  Back at the nest, Cat gathered Maman and as many other dogs as she could reach, hugged them to her. Tears came, and would not stop. When the false dawn came, Cat dug the fat squirrel from the dead coals of the cooking fire. Together, she and the dogs ate, sharing as if the cooked squirrel was their last supper.

  ~*~

  When Gewagan returned to his camp at the head of a dozen Shoshone warriors, Stryker still couldn’t use his body right. Will and the woman Walks had gotten him onto a pallet of buffalo hide. The leeches still sucked blood from their positions around the entry wound high on his chest, just beneath his collar bone and just inside his shoulder joint. The wound was still angry red and inflamed, but chances were it would not kill him.

  Stryker struggled to sit up as Gewagan strode toward him. Walks pushed him back down. “Rest. Poison not all out yet.”

  Gewagan didn’t so much as glance at Walks. He prodded Stryker with the butt of his lance. “Who you?”